


The Only Heaven I'll be Sent To

by twelvensfield



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Minor Crowley/Bobby Singer, Monster Slavery, Sexual Tension, Slow(ish) Burn, god hates everyone, post apocalyptic, psychic!Sam, werewolf!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-01-23 03:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12497968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvensfield/pseuds/twelvensfield
Summary: God has a vendetta against all of his creations, Leviathans roam the earth, Gabriel has daddy issues, Castiel has a death wish, Dean is the world's stupidest werewolf, and Sam's bath of self-pity is deeper than anyone thought. Oh, and what's going on with Bobby and Crowley?[UPDATED TWICE A WEEK]





	1. Chapter 1

The markets were always busy on a Sunday, the bustle of post-apocalyptic life thrumming with nervous energy. It wasn't uncommon to see angels meandering through the closely-packed paths (most commonly with 'hunting companions' in tow), but the pair still received mindful stares as they ducked and weaved; heads bent low.

Demons were manning the stalls - selling anything and everything from blood to blades. Other demons had vampires and werewolves trailing behind them, either as slaves or what could loosely be deemed as friends. All held hand-to-hand weaponry: hunting knives, machetes, throwing knives or (more rarely) angel blades. The hostile expressions made Castiel nervous, eyes darting from person to person in search of Rogues. Gabriel just continued to drag him through the maze of people; angels, demons, monsters and humans all warily eyeing the pair's guarded faces and lack of visible defense.

At last they came to a halt outside of one of the only remaining buildings in the crowded city. Castiel's gaze drifted over the ivory marble columns and his eye twitched at the familiar golden crest painted on the door. Above it read the words; 'fortis addet fortitudinem' (what is strong will grow stronger) and the taller angel scoffed, earning an unamused glare from Gabriel standing beside him.

Needless to say, Castiel was dragged through the entrance hall with much more force than necessary.

//

"I do not like it in here." Castiel's voice was hoarse, low, terse. His shoulder blades shifted uncomfortably as if to re-adjust a few stray feathers.

"Would you just chill? Jeez, it's like you'd rather _die_ than be in this place." A pause, "Oh, wait." the shorter man rolled his eyes, "You would."

As if on cue Castiel's stride faltered and a pained expression washed over his face, his hand inching towards the bandage on his thigh.

"Gabriel, we seriously need to reconsider-"

"Look, smartass, we're only here because _you_ nearly died. It's not _my_ fault we're so late to the party no specials came running into our arms." Castiel breathed a weary sigh as Gabriel continued. "And don't think for a second I like this any more than you do. But we need to find us some psychics, Cassie."

A low grumble was all he got in response.

//

Dean's head hung low. His shoulders were hunched and his breathing was strained. From this angle, he could see the prominence of his ribs amongst an angry smattering of scars. He laughed mirthlessly, the realisation of his helplessness settling uncomfortably in his brain.

The 'food' they'd thrown into his cell was rotting in a corner, flies circling like vultures in the wastelands of a desert, taunting him. His stomach growled in attempt of rebellion.

Mid-afternoon sun poured in through the barred slither of a window across from him. He winced as his wrists scraped harshly against the silver handcuffs adorning his arms. His skin had warped and twisted, forming uneven rings.

Once again his flesh burned, this time upon hearing footsteps pound on the cool metal floor - his ears ringing with the overwhelming ricochets.

Ignoring the incessant aching in his head, Dean braced himself against the wall of his cell, starved muscles taut with the effort of holding up his weakened frame.

A guard strode down the hall, a quiet determination resting on his face. Dean could feel a twitching in his calves, a restless urge to run free - away with Sam back to crappy motels and fighting Rogues; no chains, no captivity. No slavery.

The bars lifted from the door. Dean's heart sped up imperceptibly, fangs extending as his eyes shifted into piercing yellow orbs. A harsh growl was pulled from his throat as the guard walked forward, smirk settled upon fierce features.

Dean lunged; claws extended, teeth bared in a ravenous snarl. The skin across his stomach stretched and rebelled against the sharp, sudden jolts of Dean's body as he scratched and fought with all his last remaining strength, the adrenaline in his veins like the beast in his body. He collided with flesh, tearing and ripping and clawing and snapping. A punch to his jaw knocked his whole body sideways, pain clouding his vision as his head smacked harshly against the merciless ground.

And then the guard descended on him, fists flying and forcing the breath from Dean's wheezing lungs. He choked on the copper of his blood, his body violently rejecting any thoughts of staying whole for another hour. Regaining what little composure he could muster, Dean tasted the sweat in the air and laughed, the sound marred and broken to his ears. The guard pulled out a gun from behind his back, smiling wickedly as Dean tested his balance once again, ducking and dodging around the cell in a crazed haste, a blazen trail of gunfire following his every step.

Again he aimed his teeth at the guard's neck, the pounding in his head doing nothing to slow his sporadic movements and jerking frame.

In an instant, he pounced, struggling for strength and the liquid to quench his rapidly growing bloodlust. And then a sudden, blooming pain shot through his system and rendered his futile struggle useless, his spasming limbs falling to the floor in a cacophony of blood and fatigue.

And the last thing Dean saw was the collar being fixed firmly around his neck, the sickening crunch of a doomed fate before the world fell down around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas was still fidgeting nervously, and by that time Gabriel couldn't gather the energy to care, idly speaking his mind about the predicted effects of a pointed lack of sugar to his diet - post-apocalyptic suburbia no longer fulfilling his need for an hourly dose of glucose. Meanwhile Castiel was beginning to feel the weight of the decision he was about to make: sitting here amongst a host of his brethren (angels and demons alike) with the walls pressing down on him and a rather human-like churning engulfing his abdomen.

Gabriel nudged his side as the announcer stepped forward, outlining the lots in a rush of words Castiel was too distracted to pay attention to.

First was a fairly well-built woman with piercing eyes, and bar from a few scars seemed relatively unscathed. A vampire, fifty confirmed Rogue kills, four previous owners (all died on the job), an extensive list of previous crimes - ranging from petty theft to vehicular manslaughter, and twelve confirmed captured Leviathans to her name. Gabriel looked in the least mildly alarmed, although Castiel suspected he wasn't letting out nearly as much fright as he was feeling. She went to a burly demon with thick sideburns and ninja stars peeking out from the underside of his leather jacket.

More 'lots' flew by; tall and short, new and old, psychic and werewolf. Castiel observed; Gabriel threw in a few bids to get out the big buyers stupid enough to waste good money on pride.

Lot nineteen (a werewolf) was dragged to the small platform, this time restrained with shining silver shackles connecting around his body, restricting his movements and hissing spitefully at the flesh of his exposed upper body.

At first Castiel was oblivious, continuing his casual appreciation of the planes of the 'lot's' biceps, briefly noting that the werewolf's ferocious gaze was met by a sea of leers and scoffs from the crowd of seasoned warriors. But then he noticed the fresh blossom of a biting bruise clinging to the man's cheek, a marring of scars coating his ribs in a riot of blood and starved flesh. He saw the angry red welts of where silver had met skin and bitten it almost to bone, preventing the plethora of other wounds from healing with an ardent need.

Castiel's whole face twitched at the outright show of abuse. His fists clenched around the now broken arms of his chair, pink knuckles turning pale with the strain of skin splayed taut against muscle.

And yet, Castiel did not fail to notice, the werewolf held his head high - no indication of resignation or a mindless obedience that had clouded the countenance of many a slave before him. Their eyes locked as the announcer read his details, Castiel catching a glimpse into a vast expanse of green and a swirling mass of pain.

The werewolf was Dean Winchester; only referred to by name because of his lethal reputation as a wanted hunter. Somehow that fact didn't surprise Castiel. He had no previous owners (a non-conformist freshly captured), one hundred and fifty-two confirmed Rogue kills, twenty-two Leviathan kills, countless murder charges and seventy-one confirmed captured Leviathans.

The bidding commenced.

It started off at two gallons of demon's blood and one enchanted silver weapon from a weedy-looking angel with a prevalent twitch and a body made of fear, his bid immediately outweighed with a cough and a mutter from the back.

Castiel's eyes studied Gabriel's expression cautiously, warily, as he fumbled around with his conscience. Gabriel wanted psychics - werewolves were too vicious, too wild. But this one was different; his gaze was firm and his face calm, pride and determination ingrained into his features as firmly as was blood into veins. Castiel's thoughts warred; all the while bids flew past him in a flurry, razors darting back and forth against skin too scarred to split.

He was painfully aware of offers growing few and far between, that same notion the fuel of his decision to quell the battle in his mind.

With a blurt he announced his bid: four gallons of fallen angel blood, two angel blades and an enchanted silver pocket watch. With a shudder the hall fell silent - Castiel was standing, wings bared, in the deafening silence of a shell-shocked audience. The shadows of his weathered feathers stabbed fear through the hearts of every being there, and Gabriel's neck snapped around at his brother's abrupt outburst. The rippling rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning from outside the hall accompanied his stance.

Castiel noticed the smirk placed silently on the werewolf's lips before he even looked up, could feel the weight of those piercing green eyes on his skin come and go like the raking of the tide, as if he were the shore.

A few demons shifted around them, discreetly pulling blades from their pockets and drawing up what strength they could muster this far from the Northern Gate. Castiel ceased their attempts with a blazing expression and the foreboding shadow of charred, vengeful wings seething by his side. Not many angels could produce even a glimpse of their true form so long after the Fall, after the ever-expanding distancing from their Father. Then again, not many angels were Castiel.

Weighing up the possible outcomes of the situation in his mind before deciding on a less gruesome path, the auctioneer responded tersely with a "Sold," directed at Castiel and proceeded with gathering information on the next lot.

The atmosphere dissolved into an air of discomfort when the Winchester (still held, forgotten, on the platform) laughed, voice cracking and broken and laced with a brazen haughtiness. His eyes once again landed on Castiel, this time with a mocking edge to his expression. Beside him a guard growled, baring his teeth at the elder Winchester and punching him soundly with the silver rings around his fingers, drawing out a pained howl from the werewolf as he slumped, dazed, onto the freshly bloodied ground. Again he smiled, an angry trail of crimson making its way from his abdomen to the floor he had now become so acquainted with. So, through a searing cloud of pain Dean was dragged, bleeding and laughing, through to the back room as Castiel hissed under his breath at the silver-knuckled guard trailing smugly behind him.

The announcer settled the crowd and Gabriel gaped disbelievingly at Castiel, who begrudgingly sat himself back down as the next lot was brought to the platform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No kudos yet but I'm still in moderately high hopes, anyways I hope you like the new chapter (surprise, I uploaded it on a Friday!)


	3. Chapter 3

Lot twenty. Lanky, gaunt-looking despite a firm build and chiseled features. High above six feet, this psychic towered over the guardsmen and just about everyone in the overcrowded hall.

Castiel had gone back to his brooding observations, although this time focusing more on the dawning realisation of what he had just done. He'd shown his wings (something probably _not_ too wise due to the recent angel kidnappings), become the owner of a werewolf slave - Dean Winchester, no less - and consequently made himself and Gabriel two of the most targeted angels in the godforsaken country.

Gabriel chuckled quietly under his breath, wondering when his brother had become so outspoken, and decided to approach the subject later along with why in the burning pits of hell Castiel had spontaneously decided to buy one of the world’s most wanted killers. He turned back to the auction, however, when the announcer began his speech.

“Psychic. Premonitions and mild telekinesis when stimulated with demon blood. No previous owners, three hundred and twenty Rogue kills,” Gabriel’s head snapped up at that – the guy barely looked to be a legal adult; head sagging and defeated, body bruised and broken and trembling, “fifty-six confirmed Leviathan kills and one hundred and two captures. Seventy-two convictions of murder in over twelve states. Fifteen arson charges, over two hundred reported thefts, twenty confirmed demon kidnappings and thirty-two angel kills.” The hall became a mass of whispers and the psychic’s head lifted to the noise, eyes shining with unshed tears, exhaustion and apprehension clouding his frame and making his knees tremble with the weight of a hundred hungry gazes. “Sam Winchester.” Gabriel’s eyes widened and for a second it was all he could do to stare blankly at the torn man on the podium, comparing his weary features to the name even _he_ had learnt to fear.

His brain was reeling with thoughts, the crowd was still awash with words and Gabriel took a moment to process his whirling mind. _Sam Winchester. Azazel’s protégé and one of the first successful demon blood psychics. Murderer. Monster; or at least considered to be by many. Brother of Dean Winchester. Brother of the werewolf now in the possession of_ my _brother. Welp._ That’s _not good … fuck it._

“Sold, to the g _or_ geous archangel at the back.” Gabriel’s voice was accompanied by a cocky grin, turning lopsided as the psychic’s head lifted in confusion; his three sets of shadowed wings broadening challengingly at any opposition. The announcer gulped, gesturing in a daze at the guards to take Sam through to the back as he waited cautiously for Gabriel to get seated.

Castiel’s stare was glued to Gabriel’s temple, but the angel refused to meet his eyes, instead gripping Castiel by the arm to follow the guards and get the _fuck_ out of Wyoming. Both angels could feel the fear and hate rolling towards them in waves, boring into their skulls and chewing at their resolve. Castiel tried in vain to hide his (slightly more prominent than usual) limp, but with every step his leg groaned and shook and made his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Gabriel slung his arm underneath Castiel’s shoulders, one of the only things keeping the angel from being as acquainted with the floor as Dean Winchester had been previously. Gabriel attempted to heal Castiel’s leg as they walked, but he only managed to stop the slow spread of crimson blooming across his bandage before Castiel jerked away, hobbling into a room labeled ‘Lot 19’.

//

Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of the cell’s door opening with a thud. He grinned and saw a flicker of empathy in the angel’s eyes when Dean coughed up a stream of blood.

“Dean Winchester, I’m Castiel. I … ‘own’ you.”

The werewolf laughed, all fangs and blood-red smile, “Is that so?”

Castiel tilted his head and regarded Dean more critically. His jeans were torn, and the collar around his neck too tight and pulsing with light. The silver chains were still wound tightly around his body, burning his skin with every slight movement. There were slashes up and down his chest, old and new blending together in a sea of red. A sheen of sweat coated the werewolf’s skin and Castiel winced, scrambling to rip off the silver etching itself into Dean’s skin.

Dean shuddered, suppressing a flinch and dropping his façade with a muffled whimper when more of the chain dug into his shoulder blades.

“Where’s my brother?” His tone was measured, his mind whirring with escape plans and where to find the nearest weapon that could disarm an ang-

“With mine.”

“What?”

The angel had discarded most of the chain but pulled the remnants from Dean’s skin with such force that the tail end came whipping into his cheekbone with a resounding crunch.

Dean bared his teeth and growled out a “Fuckgoddamnit you prick!” before coming to terms with the startling realisation that the angel held all the cards in their situation and could, at no more than a moment’s notice, throw Dean’s body into the nearest brick wall and squash what little chance he had left of saving Sam from the mess that _Dean_ had managed to get them both into.

Castiel dropped the chain and regarded Dean’s face once more, eyes boring into his own with something that Dean didn’t particularly want to find out about. “My apologies.”

Dean barely had a chance to let the words register in his (by now _beyond_ fuzzy) brain before a hand was splayed against his stomach, nagging and insistent under his piss poor attempts at escape, a wild fire flooding through his veins and making his whole body shiver with adrenaline.

Dean felt the fire contort and mutate underneath his skin, spreading through him like a tyrant, leaving him breathless – trembling with power and heat as it knitted together the wounds across his ribs and calves and cheek and neck.

But he saw the colour drain rapidly from the angel’s forehead, beads of sweat collecting at the fine hair of his temples. Castiel’s eyes flicked up to Dean’s briefly and that was all it took for the angel’s concentration to waver – for the hand at Dean’s stomach to twitch, for the fire in his bones to ebb and recede in an instant.

Castiel pulled away, sagging with exhaustion and feeling the trail of blood make its way from his nose to his mouth, feeling the pounding in his head grow into a crescendo of thumps and bangs inside his skull. The bandage gripping his thigh turned a darker shade of crimson, and he saw the conflict written in Dean’s eyes as the world turned grey around him, the sudden realisation of his stupidity knocking him down like a ton of ashen feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the positive response so far, it's amazing! Here's the next one, sorry it's a bit late (oops oh well)


	4. Chapter 4

Gabriel grumbled into the room labelled ‘Lot 20’ and found Sam pacing across the metal floor, a hand running through his long strands of hair. Gabriel couldn’t help but notice the thick line of muscle engulfing the psychic’s gangly limbs. “Whatcha thinking about, Sasquatch?”

The rhythmic padding of his feet halted and his body jerked in Gabriel’s direction. “Sasquatch?”

“Sasquatch.”

The man continued to look perplexed, if a little apprehensive, when Gabriel stepped closer.

“I know where your brother is.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me.” His features were worn with sadness, a yearning for the opportunity to escape tensing the muscles at his jaw.

“ _That’s_ where you would be mistaken,” Sam’s eyebrow quirked minutely. “I’m going to show you where he is before _my_ brother does something completely irrational,” At that, Sam’s features contorted into something between worried and alarmed. “which is a notion he’s been more … _inclined_ to lately.”

Gabriel led the way out of the room, motioning at Sam to follow him with a fleeting gesture. They made the short walk to the room Castiel had vanished into and Gabriel knocked on the door, forcing it open when a beat passed with no reply.

The werewolf was crouched on the floor, wounds for the most part healed, holding Castiel’s head an inch or so from the floor. Dean’s neck whipped round at the noise from the door, and Sam shoved past Gabriel’s shoulder to greet him before clapping his brother on the back with affection.

“I swear to my dickhead of a father that when that idiot wakes up I’m gonna kick his ass right into the hands of the nearest bounty hunter.”

//

Dean was in the backseat with Castiel, and he leant the angel’s body against his own when the road beneath the car turned to splotches of uneven dirt track. He saw Gabriel flicking his eyes to the mirror nervously, paying little attention to the buildings whizzing past them. When he noticed a motel sign glaring at them from a few feet away, the car’s breaks slammed, and Dean’s heart raced in his chest.

They got to the front desk, Gabriel’s arm underneath Castiel’s shoulders, and the demon just nodded them through as Gabriel tossed her a bag of angel blood. Dean and Sam led the way to the room, conversing quietly enough in the hopes that Gabriel wouldn’t hear.

“We need to run.”

“ _Dean_ , we can’t, neither of us are strong enough to make it even a mile from here with these _things,_ ” Sam gestured to the buzzing collar around his throat, “electrifying us as soon as they notice we’re missing.”

“And what’s the alternative? Huh?” Dean’s voice was raised but a nudge from Sam brought him back to reality, “We can’t exactly stick it out with _angels_ , Sam. They’ll get us killed by next month and have a new set of psychics by their side without a second _thought._ ”

“Oh _really_?” Gabriel’s voice shot through their cores as he opened the door and dropped Castiel on the bed with a _thunk_ , “Then tell me why my brother is passed out on this shit-stain of a mattress after attempting to heal _you,_ Dean Winchester.”

Sam’s eyes grew a little wider and Dean’s scowl hardened.

“I haven’t got a clue, but it sure as _hell_ wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart.”

Gabriel was on him in a second. The shadow of his wings curled around the older Winchester, pushing him into the wall as Sam tried to step between them.

“You don’t know a _thing_ about my brother.”

“And I do _not_ want to stay long enough to figure him out.”

Sam pushed Dean from the wall and took his place, turning to Gabriel. “But I think you’ll both agree we have to find some common ground before one of us ends up in a body bag.”

Gabriel withdrew his wings and Dean glared at them both from across the room.

“Well, Sasquatch, what _is_ it that you think we have in common?”

“An enemy,” his eyes roamed over Gabriel’s features, “clearly you needed us for protection, and that is what we’ll give you for as long as it takes to get to South Dakota.”

“What’s in South Dakota?”

“A friend of ours,” Gabriel scoffed, “and an end to the Leviathans.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect you to believe me, but I ask you to trust that I want them to leave as much as you do.” Sam looked at Gabriel with as much sincerity as his words implied.

“Fine. But I _swear,_ if either of you try to play us, Castiel and I won’t be the ones leaving in body bags.”

//

When Castiel awoke it was to the greasy mattress of a motel bed and tension in the room thick enough to stab a Leviathan through. “What happened?”

“We’re going to Sioux Falls.” Gabriel’s words were short and Castiel’s memory came back in a rush and a throbbing headache.

“There’s, um, Advil on the nightstand.” Sam spoke but Castiel’s eyes were locked with the other Winchester’s. His gaze roamed the planes of the werewolf’s still-exposed torso and the faded scars littering his abdomen.

“I healed Dean.”

“Yeah, well, no shit, Captain Obvious.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and Dean covered a scoff with a cough that erupted into a series of rib-rattling wheezes that took his knees to the floor and littered the carpet with droplets of blood.

Castiel rushed to his side in an instant, ignoring the nagging of his headache and Gabriel’s plea. His hand found its way once again to Dean’s stomach, but the werewolf forced him away with a shaking shove and a whisper of, “It’s okay, I’m fine.” Sam made his way to his brother’s side and helped him up to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No, you’re not.” Castiel’s voice spoke insistence and authority, but Dean fixed him with a hard glare.

“Yes, I am.”

A breath of silence.

“When was the last time you ate?” Sam’s voice was wary, erring on the side of caution.

“Look, it doesn’t matt—”

“That is _exactly_ what matters.” Gabriel’s eyes flashed, voice booming which set the whole room on edge. “We are _not_ going to travel around this _literally_ godforsaken country with a starving werewolf suffering from chronic denial.” The werewolf’s face hardened.

“ _When_ was the last time you ate?” This time it was Castiel who fixed Dean with a glare.

Dean flicked his eyes to the ground and back, setting his shoulders, “Two months ago.”

“Two _months_?” Gabriel’s words were incredulous, and Dean’s gaze once again returned to the floor.

“Yes. Is that a _problem_?”

“Of _course_ that’s a—”

“Why?” Castiel seemed oddly calm, detached.

“The whole reason we wound up in that stupid auction was _because_ I had to eat, so I _don’t_ ,” his eyes wandered to Gabriel’s pointedly, “think that it should be a _problem_.” Gabriel was fuming from the corner, gesticulating with silent hand gestures and pacing the small space.

“You’re a werewolf, Dean.”

“I noticed that, Castiel.”

“You _need_ to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re coughing up blood!”

“Yeah, and forty minutes ago I was covered head to toe in third degree burns!”

“Would you two just shut the _hell_ up!” Gabriel’s voice shocked the two out of their apparent shouting match, chests mere inches from each other, eyes blazing with an impressive amount of fury in spite of their conditions. “Sasquatch isn’t doing too good.” Sam’s face was scrunched, the smooth lines of his face contorted into a pained scowl as he hunched forward, dangerously close to the end of the bed.

“Sam, Sammy, talk to me.” Dean rushed to his brother’s side, strength seemingly recuperated, and cupped his face, “What did you see?”

“We … we, uh, fUck,” Sam slid to the floor, clutching his head, “we have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's slightly longer because I just added a shit ton to it so yayyyy, anyway thanks so much for the positive response and I hope you're enjoying it so far because there should be a lot more to come :)


	5. Chapter 5

“This might be a good time to ask what the _hell_ we’re gonna do about the shit ton of demons which, according to psychic Samsquatch over here, are _hot on our tail!”_ Gabriel was back to pacing, raiding his duffel full of weapons and shoving clothes into various stain-consumed backpacks.

“Dean, take this,” Castiel threw him an angel blade from one of the pockets hidden in his trench coat, “Sam, all you need to do is stay awake enough to start the car while the rest of us cover you.”

“Woah, woahhhh, wait a second.”

“What, Gabriel? We don’t have time.”

“Sidebar,” Gabriel tugged the angel by his lapels, “we can’t _give Dean a weapon that can kill us_!” His whispers cut through Castiel’s nerve and the younger angel pushed Gabriel away with a force that surprised them both. “We _barely_ know the guy.”

“Well _what other choice_ do we have, brother?” A pause, “We need to get moving.” This time Castiel addressed the whole room, voice steady though he could feel his heartbeat rising.

Dean looped an arm around Sam as the group made their way to the motel’s door, weaving around ice machines and cola cans. Castiel spotted their car and pointed Sam in its direction. Gabriel was still huffing with exasperation when they spotted the first demon.

“Gabriel, right,” another huff, “Dean, you and I will take the left,” Dean faltered but nodded, his eyes locking with Castiel’s, “let’s take these assbutts down.”

Castiel threw the keys to Sam and the group parted, stabbing and slashing and swerving. They fought werewolves, demons, vampires, and a horde of other creatures that were better off unnamed. Dean grabbed a machete from a fallen vampire and hacked a path for the two angels to pass through, covered in blood and littered with bruises. Castiel spotted a smaller group of demons heading towards the car that Sam was sitting in, struggling to light the engine with shaking hands.

Dean looked at him and hesitated before nodding slightly, the sign of approval making Castiel fumble.

“Keep holding them off, I will be right back.”

Castiel ran towards the car, feet landing solidly on the concrete with every thump, thump, thump of his heart. His leg ached and blood blotted the fabric of his pants, hindering his movements, but he stabbed either side of his body with a flourish nonetheless, parrying and slicing and aiming and ducking. Every step bled into the next, hacking off a head and stabbing in the chest, wincing at a wound and jerking into the attacker with a blade tearing into their throat.

The angel was limping even more profoundly by the time he’d made it to the car, another stab wound to his leg draining what little energy he had left. “Sam, move over.” He opened the door and hobbled into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a flick of his wrist.

Blood was weeping out of the wounds to his leg, and he ripped a strip of his trench coat to tie around his thigh.

“That’s not looking too great.” Sam now had sweat collecting at his temples, and a bead of blood trickling its way down to his mouth.

“Neither are you, Sam,” Castiel winced as he tightened the bandage on his thigh, “so buckle your seatbelt, because I’m about to drive this car straight into that collection of surprisingly diverse monsters.”

“Wait, you’re wha—”

The car sped out of its space, and Castiel realised with a growing sense of dread that the last time he’d driven a car, Gabriel ended up sprawled in a ditch with a broken shin. Sam was gripping his seat with such force that the seams were beginning to burst, and Castiel himself felt yesterday’s lunch (half a tin of possibly – probably – spoiled beans) churning in his stomach.

They careened around the corner, swerving dangerously close to Dean and Gabriel when Castiel swept the tail end of the vehicle into a shapeshifter.

“Get in!” The command was met with a cautious complacency from both men, but complacency nonetheless, and not moments after the doors banged shut on either side, Castiel slammed the accelerator and once again was met with the consequences of his own stupidity as a bout of crimson blotted his makeshift bandage.

“Shit, man, you can’t drive like that.” Dean’s voice was slightly pained, and he was holding his shoulder with enough pressure to make his hand an eerie shade of white.

“I’m _fine_.”

Dean chuckled with more pain and disbelief, “You have _got_ to be shitting me.”

“No, Dean, I am not ‘shitting’ you.”

“Pull the damn car over before you get us all killed!”

“I. Am. _Fine._ ”

“No. No, you’re not!”

“Dean, seriously, literally, and figuratively, _be quiet,_ or—”

“Or _what_ , Cas, _what_?”

“Or I will go back there and show you _exactly_ what that collar was made for!” Dean’s teeth bared and Castiel’s eyes flashed in the overhead mirror.

“Dean’s right.” Gabriel’s statement came out as more of a sigh than anything else, but ceased the argument and growing tension. “You can’t drive with two stab wounds to the same leg, and a fuel tank about to overheat, both literally _and_ figuratively.”

Castiel’s stare flicked to the meter and he groaned, banging the steering wheel and pulling the car onto a side road. Dean got out first, jogging to the trunk and rooting around for a medical kit only to reappear with a bottle of vodka and thread. He yanked Castiel’s door open and handed him the vodka while he cut away the bloodied cloth of what _was_ Castiel’s pant leg.

“Drink it,” Dean caught a lighter from Gabriel and heated up a needle, “this’ll hurt,” Cas obliged and took a swig, grimacing, “ _not_ that that’s a terrible idea.” The angel laughed hesitantly and poured a shot of the clear liquid over both gashes, hissing and downing another one from the bottle’s lid.

Dean got to work sewing up Castiel’s newest injury while Gabriel and Sam sat nervously on the hood of the car, passing a cigarette with shaking hands. Castiel attempted - in vain - to block out with the feeling of his flesh burning under Dean’s (slightly smirking) critical gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” The apology took both men by surprise, before Dean cut and tied the thread.

“What for?”

“Not taking off your collar.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Trepidation seeped through Dean's words until Castiel waved his had over his neck, the clasp shattering onto the ground. He nodded towards his brother just as Gabriel had done the same for Sam.

"Let's get moving, gumdrops," Sam rolled his eyes at Gabriel but called shotgun, "we've got a long drive to Sioux Falls."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this so far, my mock exams are next week so I may not have the chance to update, but I'm working on the next chapter now so it shouldn't be a problem ...


	6. Chapter 6

It was around 2am when Gabriel woke to the sound of distress. The four men had given up the idea of driving around in the open when the sky turned a particularly ominous shade of orange, and instead took shifts patrolling the new area. Dean wasn’t in the car, and neither was Castiel by the looks of things, which left Sam and Gabriel. And Gabriel was fairly certain that _he_ wasn’t the one thrashing around and muttering like a madman.

“Yo, Sasquatch.”

Nothing.

“Sam, wake up.” Gabriel shook his shoulder.

The psychic continued to jerk his arms, shake his head and mutter a string of sounds.

“You’re having a nightmare,” Gabriel pressed his hand to the other man’s forehead and rubbed his thumb back and forth in circles, “You gotta wake up before your big bro thinks I’m torturing you.” Sam stirred and blinked his eyes hazily.

Gabriel withdrew his hand back between the two front seats.

“What happened?”

“You weren’t sleeping too great.”

Sam rubbed an exasperated hand over his face and sat up, bashing his head on the car’s lopsided ceiling. “Shit.” Gabriel hid a chuckle.

“What were you dreaming about?” Gabriel tried not to overstep the imaginary _yes-I-technically-bought-you-but-I-still-kinda-wanna-be-your-friend_ line.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

It didn’t work. Time for option number two; “You wanna go outside? Calming nerves takes more than sleeping in this shitstain of a car.” Gabriel got up with an ache in his neck and Sam huffed a laugh.

“Yeah,” he glanced down at his watch, “nothing’s better than cigarettes before the sun rise.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Samsquatch.”

//

“I feel like raiding a liquor store.” He’s lying on the ground, pulling at strands of grass.

“Dean, we are in the middle of nowhere. And the car is out of gas. And I can’t walk more than two hundred feet without falling over. And—”

“And we should stay here anyway,” Dean sat up, looking over at the car to see the rustlings of movement, “on the other hand,” a mangled gurgling sound came from his stomach and he doubled over, face screwed with pain.

“We are going hunting.” Castiel stood up.

“I’m _fine._ ” Dean started coughing, hacking up blood onto grass.

“Okay, _I_ am going hunting.”

“Wait,” cough, “Cas,” cough, “you can’t go hunting,” cough, “you said it yourself, you can’t walk more than two hundred feet without,” cough, “falling over.”

“And you can’t live on an empty stomach for another day without _dying_ , Dean.”

Cas headed towards the forest behind him, limping, and pulled out an angel blade.

Dean rolled his eyes, coughed again for good measure, and followed him grudgingly. “Wait up, idiot.”

Castiel looked back over his shoulder, a smirk forming on his lips despite the stoic-edging-on-monotonous words he spoke, “I am glad you deem your life to be worth more than a coyote’s heart.”

//

“You don’t strike me as being the smoking kind of guy.” Gabriel quirked an eyebrow, passing Sam the lighter.

“I wasn’t,” he paused and took a drag, “well, before … y’know.”

“Huh.”

“It relaxes me. Even though, logically, I know that it heightens your blood pressure.” Gabriel continued to gaze at him. “The nicotine raises your heartrate, narrows your arteries, makes you more likely to die from a heart attack.” He passed the cigarette back. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”

“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”

Sam chuckled. Gabriel smirked.

“You _did_ strike me as a fan of Mark Twain.”

“Not something I would have expected of you, Gabe.”

“I like to defy expectations.”

“Well, you’ve definitely succeeded at that.”

“That may be a problem, dearest Samsquatch, because my interest in my work dies a sudden and violent death when the work is done.”

The laugh pulled from Sam’s throat is more of a cough, a watery eye and another drag of the dwindling cigarette. “You’re going to kill me.”

“A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”

This time Sam shoves Gabriel off the hood of the car but is pulled with him, and they land hard on the ground, the cigarette put out by the gravel and dust. They’re both smiling. But once again, Sam’s is touching on melancholy. “Thank you.”

Gabriel only nods, and that is how they stay until the sun rises; backs on rough ground, soft smiles keeping them warm, dirty jeans brushing together, to the sound of crickets and wind.

//

Dean’s teeth are bared, his eyes are golden, his vision is distorted but all the more clear. He can smell a pack of coyotes, prowling, same as him. Castiel nods from his position on the opposite side of the clearing. On three, they jump. Dean’s blood thumps around his body, and he sees Castiel slice with blades, a flawless flourish and execution despite the injuries to his leg. Dean’s approach is more guttural, instinctive. He devours necks, cracks limbs, relishes in the hunt and the feeling of adrenaline fueling his thirst for _blood._ It’s consuming and glorious and completely too satisfying. He’s drenched in blood from the neck up and all he can hear is the _beat, beat, beat_ of the heart in front of him. And then it’s in his teeth and throat and filling up his stomach, it’s sparking a fire in his veins and lighting up his eyes, all he can feel is blood, blood, bloodblood _bloodbloodblo—_

“Dean.” Cas’ hand is on his shoulder. He breathes. He breathes again. His eyes turn back to a cloudy green, his fists unclench, and he leans into Castiel’s warmth.

“Cas.”

“I’ve got more hearts. We can go.” He produces evidence; three double-lined freezer bags (how he’d got his hands on them, Dean has no idea) with sides smeared with blood.

Dean breathes slowly, standing straighter than he had in a long time. “Okay.”

They make their way through the clearing and back to the gravel paths lining the highway. It’s four am when they reappear at the car, hearts on Castiel’s sleeve. Sam looks relieved when he takes in Dean’s replenished energy. Gabriel rolls his eyes and starts the car. Cas climbs in the back, Dean taking the seat next to him.

When they rumble down the road, it’s with more light in their chests than they thought was possible. All they needed to do now was save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mocks are going okay so far (that I know of), but they finish next Wednesday so there still might be a slow chapter update next week. Anyway, I hope you liked this one -- and it was on time!!1!


	7. Chapter 7

Seventeen hours in the car and Castiel’s knee was bouncing. The small metal container was closing in on him, he was sure. Dean kept casting him worried glances, but Gabriel (still driving to the rest of their collective astonishment) was chatting happily with Sam about Mark Twain, and poetry, of all things.

The distraction of Sam and Gabe’s lingering looks only worked for so long before Castiel could once again feel his wings cramp and contort.

Trees whizzed past his face and taunted him, and with every yard of speed the car clamped down around him.

“Gabriel.” Dean’s voice was lost to him, a sea of hot air between them. “Gabriel, I think we need to pull over.”

“Can’t you hold your piss in for another couple of miles?”

“I think somethin’s wrong with Cas.”

Gabriel pulled over, Cas still reeling from the claustrophobia as he stumbled out of the car and bent over his knees with long, heaving breaths. Dean followed him swiftly and placed a hand awkwardly at Cas’ neck.

“It was, uh,” Cas breathed, “my wings. In the car. They, uh, they get, uh”

“Cas, man, don’t worry. It’s fine,” He looked over at Gabriel, “We can walk the rest of the way. There’s gotta be a motel around here somewhere.”

“Okey dokey.” There was only a slight show of hesitance. “Just take care of my little brother.”

Dean would.

//

Gabriel and Sam continued up the road.

“What was all that about?”

“Huh? Oh, angels get claustrophobic sometimes. Not used to all this worldly crap and small spaces.”

“Hmm.”

Silence.

“How come you’re fine?”  
“I used to visit Earth sometimes, you know, before dearest dad chucked us down like burning bags of trash.”

Sam laughed, a tinge of sadness edging his tone. “What did you do?”

“I became Loki.”

“As in, the Norse God? Of mischief?” His eyebrows shot up.

“Yeah. The very same. Got put on a committee and everything.”

“And what did _dearest dad_ think of that?”

“I don’t know, I never asked.”

“Issues?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Another laugh, “me too.”

“Well, I shared my story, how about you?”

“We grew up with our father, John.” Sam paused, contemplating.

“Well, that much I _did_ know.”

“He was fine. It was fine.” Another pause, “But I didn’t want to stay. He wasn’t happy. He hated me for it. I hated him for it. So I left. And he died. And it’s the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“That’s not fair to say.”

“It is. If I had been home, there would have been enough of us to take out the vampire nest. But because I left, there wasn’t. And Dean had to kill his own father.” He dropped his head, “I will never forgive myself for that.”

“We’re here.” Gabriel’s change of subject was a welcome escape, and Sam took in his new surroundings. A neon motel sign, four old cars, one with slashed tyres, four walls and a roof. At least the room would be cheap. “You can’t blame yourself.” Sam began to talk again but Gabe waved him off, “If anything, blame _my_ dad. It’s worked for me so far.”

“He did a lot of good too.”

“But he also did a lot of bad. A _lot_ of bad.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“That’s what you should be telling yourself, Sam.”

“Probably,” he sighed, “thanks Gabe.”

“You too, Samsquatch.”

//

Castiel was staring intently at the clouds. The sky was an eerie shade of blue-grey, looming and cynical. Much like Castiel’s eyes, when caught in the wrong light.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I think.” Cas rolled his shoulders and ruffled what seemed to be his imaginary wings.

Dean looked doubtful, raising his eyebrows.

“I would much rather die by walking on an injured leg than by suffocating in that damn car.”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean looked down at his thigh, flicking his eyes across the dried blood mixing with fresh bouts. “I forgot.” His eyes became critical, sweeping over Castiel’s form and back up to his eyes, where they settled for longer than Dean had intended. “Get on my back.”

“What? No, Dean, I’m fine.” Cas pulled his eyebrows together and attempted to stride away, before

“Yeah, yeah, just shut up and quit acting all high and mighty.” Castiel huffed (not that he would acknowledge that) and reluctantly shuffled over. “I’m not gonna let you bleed all over the place,” he bent down for Castiel to wrap his legs around his waist and clutch at his neck, “besides,” Dean adjusted his hold and minded not to death-grip Cas’ thigh, “I don’t feel like breaking any promises.” He could almost feel Cas’ head tilt through the fabric of his shirt. “Gabriel told me to take care of you.”

“I am not a child, Dean, I do not need to be taken care of.”

Dean scoffed.

Castiel just grumbled and tightened his legs around Dean’s hips. Dean found himself tracing circles over the exposed skin of Cas’ ankle; Cas found himself nuzzling into Dean’s blood-smeared neck. If their behaviour seemed odd to either angel or werewolf, neither paid the thought any attention.

They stayed mostly in silence for the rest of the walk to the motel, nothing but breathing and stepping and the occasional brush of hair over Dean’s neck. That is, until the silence became unbearable and Dean smelled werewolves scuttling towards them from the edge of his field of vision.

“Cas,” a whisper, “stay low, over there by that rock,” he pointed with a discrete gesture, “I’ll cover you.” Dean could feel Castiel nod his head and tense his thighs. “Three, two …” Castiel jumped, landing crookedly but surely nevertheless. He sprinted to a cluster of rocks, Dean sweeping a leg under him to catch a pounce from one of the werewolves.

Cas felt the blood pump through his veins too loudly; he ached to join the fight but knew his leg would only slow Dean down. Not that that would have much effect, judging by the way he fought the three werewolves who had crept up on them from the surrounding forestry. His eyes had turned amber, his fangs had extended, his claws had ripped through clothes and skin and thick layers of muscle. Castiel thought, fleetingly, that with his renewed energy, Dean looked _glorious_. Too fleetingly for him to analyse the statement too carefully.

In the next moment, Dean took a hit to his arm. He parried and plunged his outstretched claw into the chest of his attacker, but stumbled and swayed into the direction of the others. Cas couldn’t watch Dean stumble to his death, not even with his own healing leg dragging behind him, urging him to return to relative safety. A snarl ripped its way out of Castiel’s throat, surprising the werewolf closest to him. “Get _away_ from him.” This time it was the werewolf with a grip around Dean’s neck that reacted to Castiel’s presence.

“Oh, would you _look_ at that,” the blood at his chin shimmered, “Dean Winchester has a little friend,” Castiel’s wings bristled, “isn’t that adorable.” His posture was taunting, luring Castiel in.

Dean spat and attempted to clear his throat, “Cas,” another round of coughs whilst the werewolf tightened his grip around Dean’s jugular, “run. Please, Cas, _run._ ”

Instead, Castiel dropped an angel blade into each of his own awaiting hands, making his way to the three werewolves. “What is it about the phrase ‘get away from him’ that didn’t make its way through your thick skull?” he paused, “Because it looks to me like you’re still here.” The werewolf chuckled. Castiel lunged at the second one, holding back his head whilst he sliced clean through the tendons of the werewolf’s neck. “Now, do I have to tell you again?” The werewolf snarled, vicious and raw, as he dropped Dean to the floor and approached Castiel with his claws outstretched. He pounced, aiming for the leg that Cas had tried in vain to mask. He rolled, ducked sideways and stabbed at the air next to him. A pain shot through his shoulder so he brought his remaining arm up towards the werewolf’s jaws, throwing them off balance. Castiel sliced and stabbed, focussing his energy on the demise of the werewolf still clutching at his shoulder. He felt the weight being dragged away from him. Cas turned his head to see Dean plunge the branch of a tree through the werewolf’s chest, blood oozing from his whimpering form.

Dean rushed to him and Cas held his hand out, glowing, to the gash on Dean’s arm.

“Cas, stop.” Heat rushed through his bones, “Cas, you need to save your energy.”

“Dean. I’m fine.”

“Shut the hell up, before I break both your legs and drag you back to Gabe and Sam.”

Castiel smiled, “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Dean sighed, “I’m really fucking worried about you.” He ripped away Cas’ trench coat and peered at the mangled wound that tore through his shoulder. He looked into Castiel’s eyes, green meeting blue. “You’re not fine, Cas.” He leaned closer to Castiel’s face, bringing a hand up to cup the back of the angel’s neck. “You’re not fine.” This time the words came out as a whisper. “You’re not fine.” He brought their faces closer, the cool air ghosting over them both. A crease appeared between Cas’ eyebrows, but he dug his hands into Dean’s shoulders, pulling his closer so that their noses were brushing.

“Neither are you.”

Their lips met, yearning, hesitant, voicing the emotions they could not otherwise express. Dean’s were dry and caked in blood, Cas was unsure but hungry and passionate. But they both closed their eyes and wished for time to abandon all sense for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I had real difficulty finishing this chapter, but I hope to get another one out by Wednesday. I really appreciate your comments so even if you don't like this fic, drop one down below and I can add your criticisms to my plot wheel. Lol thanks :)


	8. Chapter 8

Gabriel’s head snaps towards the motel door when it bursts open, revealing a hobbling Cas and Dean. The easy-going, tv-mocking, Sam-Winchester-ogling man is replaced by an angel; he is cool, calculated, composed. “Where are the keys?”

Sam’s confused, but throws them at Gabriel and slings a bag over his shoulder.

“They knew who Dean was. We can no longer stay here.”

Gabriel’s eyes scan over Castiel’s injuries and he holds a hand out to his shoulder and thigh. His eyes close and there is a warmth that courses through Castiel’s blood. He rolls his limbs and nods his head, doing the same for Dean. Dean’s hand relaxes around Castiel’s waist, lingering, a gesture which Gabriel picks up on. Gabriel makes his way to Sam and tells him to bring up the rear.

The men jog to the car. They get in the car. No one is there to greet them. This time, Sam drives. Dean notices, Castiel is wary of their surroundings, and Gabriel’s face remains cold.

“Is it weird that I’m praying to fucking _God,_ of all things, that the people following us are only here for our heads on sticks, and not for some Leviathan master plan to fuck the world over even more than it already is?” Sam’s words come out in one, drawn-out breath, and Gabriel chuckles. Castiel shifts in his seat, watching a plain car skirt around the edge of the wing mirror.

“Am I the only person here who doesn’t have some kind of morbid fascination with martyring themselves?” Gabriel’s clocked the car too, now, and is reaching into the duffel at his feet when the first shot rings out, “Unlike all of you, death doesn’t appeal to me,” Sam swerves the car but angles it back so Gabriel can line up his shot, “so like it or not I’m gonna save your asses.”

A third shot from the wrong direction cues Dean to pull Cas down to the floor, his body covering Cas’ own when his eyes flash amber and he leans in Gabriel’s direction to receive an array of throwing knives. Cas reaches blindly to roll the window down and Dean aims his blows at the second car, now closing in on them from the right. He’s hit the target once, twice, when he hears Sam’s cry from the front seat, followed by rapid gunshot and Gabriel’s shouts.

The car starts spinning out of control, Dean’s limbs are flailing wildly and Cas is clutching his sides. For a second all Dean can think about is Castiel’s eyes; so warm, blue, frightened in a moment of panic. Then the car flips and comes to a skidded standstill. Sam’s blood litters the floor, Cas is groaning, reaching for the duffel, and every sense of Dean’s goes mute when a baseball bat connects with the back of his head.

//

A door opens, and Dean’s senses come flooding back, in all-too-much-of-a-rush. Blood rushes to his brain, the chair under his fingers splinters from the pressure of his hands. Then he hears a voice, it’s like the surging of white noise after a silence lasting centuries; either that, or Dean was dead and this was hell (not that his soul would be able to enter hell after God sealed it off and effectively created an actual _Hell on Earth_ ).

“Balls, Crowley.”

“Yes, Robert?”

“Bags over their heads ain’t necessary. Wouldn’t mind one over yours though, you sick son of a bitch.”

“I love you too, dear.”

“Shut your trap, idgit.”

Dean was confused. His brain was still ringing and words left him. Light flooded his vision a moment later, and then a pair of hands was scrabbling at the rope around his wrists. “Dean.” He smiled; Cas, he liked Cas. His lips tasted like hope. “Dean, are you okay?”

“Cas.” A bigger, slightly more dazed grin settled over his face, followed by a frown. “Where are we?”

Gabriel had procured a chair leg and now wielded it before him, threatening violence and erring far on the side of caution. Sam looked around wildly, studying the man with a gruff beard and even gruffer baseball cap. “Bobby?”

“Heya, Sam,” at the lack of response he continued, “sorry about all this. We needed to get you before the levi bastards did.”

“Yes, and now that the pleasantries are out of the way, these two idiots are angels,” the man – Crowley, Dean supposed – gestured to Gabriel and Cas, “Sam is a psychic, and Dean is a werewolf.” Dean noticed Bobby tense out of the corner of his eye.

“Look, it’s not as ba—”

“Dean, I ain’t gonna pretend, it’s hard to accept, but we have bigger things to worry about than the,” he paused, “state you’re in.”

“Yeah, and what’s the state _you’re_ in, Bobby?” Dean glanced around the room, “Because it seems like you’ve gone batshit,” he sniffed, teeth extending, “you’re living with _demons!”_

“I can’t exactly say I like your choice of company either, Dean. Would you _put_ that goddamn chair down, y’idjit. What in hells do you think we’re gonna do to you if we haven’t done it by now, boy?” Bobby was fuming and Gabriel lowered down his weapon hesitantly, eyes calculating.

“Frankly, I don’t know, but I don’t wanna find out either.” Sam was edging closer to Gabriel and touched a hand to his shoulder, whispering something into his ear.

Bobby started again, taking out a flask of holy water from his pocket and drinking, “I ain’t crazy, and I ain’t no meatsuit. What I am is a concerned friend, and one angry son of a bitch. I want those levi’s gone as much as anyone else in this room.”

“How can we even _trust_ you, Bobby?” Dean’s voice was strained, almost pleading.

Crowley snapped his head in Dean’s direction. “Now that will be enough of that.” He smiled, eerily, demon eyes blinking red and back. “Robert is perfectly trustworthy, as you well know. And as for me, well,” he twirled the amber liquid in his hand, “I deal in souls. Human souls. I am a businessman, and without my business I am bankrupt. So I would very much like to return to hell. Killing the Leviathans guarantees that, and businessmen can always count on guarantees.”

Dean took in Crowley’s position, his words, his demon-ness. He was sat next to Bobby, legs folded regally with an arm draped over to Bobby’s left side. Non-invasive, non-committal. Dean smiled to himself.

“Screw us over and you’re dead.” Dean’s own eyes flashed with a flourish, but his teeth retracted and Castiel loosened the stone grip on Dean’s arm. Gabriel and Sam moved over to a smaller cluster of chairs and Dean relaxed into Cas’ touch.

“I can assure you, my intentions are pure,” Crowley paused, smiling the same eerie smile, “well,” his eyes raked over Bobby’s form, “not quite _pure_ ,” was it possible that Bobby _blushed?_ – “but I certainly do not wish you or your kin any harm, Dean Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this isn't Wednesday for me (I'm only half an hour late, what a miracle) but I hope for you that it is, and also that you enjoyed this chapter :) p.s. even though it's Christmas I'll probably keep a regular schedule because I'm off school and have way more time to write yay


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyy ... um. Sorry for not uploading. Inspiration didn't strike until quite recently when I started streaming season 11 of Supernatural instead of revising for my GCSEs. ANYWAY, I'm determined to finish this story, so expect regular updates and loads of adventure because writing is better than actual responsibility! Thanks for such a positive response the last time round, I'm hoping we can keep it up :)

The next day, Dean woke with a groan. Most of his injuries had healed, but there was a pressure on his right arm that just wouldn’t – _shake –_ go – _shake –_ away – _shake._ A loud thunk resonated in the room, and Dean blinked blearily to discover Castiel on the floor, his nose pressed into the hardwood. Dean nudged him with a foot and Castiel squinted up at him, “ow.”

Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to the angel’s forehead and apologising. Castiel crawled back into the bed they’d shared and mumbled something about a commercial for bacon before snoring into the pillow.

Bobby was outside, oil smeared on his face and jeans when Dean emerged from the house. He offered the man a cup of coffee and they sat on the hood of the battered Impala. Dean sighed and ran a hand over the scratched paint, “I’m sorry about springing this all on you, Bobby.”

“Ah, what the hell, it’s not like my life was a bunch of daisies before you crashed into it.” Bobby slurps what’s left of his mug and beckons Dean inside. “I wanna give you somethin’.”

Dean follows him to Bobby’s make-shift office, past Gabriel and Sam who’d crashed on the living room floor and were still snoring heavily. Bobby dug through a draw and produced a knife made of bone, not unlike the angel blades carried by Gabriel and Castiel.

“It was your dad’s, Dean,” Bobby held it out hilt-first, “so I think he’d have liked you to have it, especially in a time like this.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Dean twirled it and stashed it in his boot.

“It’s powerful enough to kill a leviathan, so don’t lose it idjit.”

A stirring from the kitchen pulled their attention away from the blade. Crowley stood, in a ‘King of the Kitchen’ apron, flipping pancakes. Bobby rolled his eyes but picked up a spatula to help, and it wasn’t long before everyone was seated around the kitchen’s small table.

When everyone was full of pancakes (from a mix that had to have been at least ten years old) Crowley stood from his seat. “Gentlemen,” he glanced at the Cas and Gabe (the latter of which still scraping his plate for the last of the syrup) “Moose,” Sam quirked an eyebrow, “Squirrel,” Dean scowled, “and my lovely Robert,” Bobby kicked him in the shins, “first of all, that hurt my feelings,” Bobby rolled his eyes, “and second of all, I know how to stop the leviathans.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “Bobby said you guys had a weapon.”

“Well …” Crowley hesitated, and Bobby groaned, “not exactly.”

Dean growled and rounded on the demon, “Crowley, you’d better start talking some goddamned sense before I rip—”

“Dean.” Castiel soothed, a hand on his arm under the table. “What do you mean, Crowley?” Castiel’s voice exuded calm, but his eyes flashed and Crowley twitched.

“We _do_ have a weapon, but it’s not enough to kill them all.”

“So we’re screwed.” This time it was Sam’s voice which grew angry, frustration building in his bones.

“Again, it’s not all that straight forward,” a collective groan built in the room and Crowley slammed his fist on the table, “would you all just listen for one fucking minute.” The silence told him of their lack of protest. “Thank you. As I was saying, we can’t kill them all, because they have a way in to and out of purgatory. As long as that remains open, they will always come back.”

Confusion crossed Castiel’s face – “I thought that the whole point of the apocalypse was that there was to be no access to outside influence.”

“Well, I have to say that I am partly to blame for that.”

Dean growled again, but this time Castiel only loosened his grip on Dean’s arm.

“Would you all stop jumping the bloody gun!” Again, the room fell silent. “I am _partly_ to blame, because it was my godforsaken _mother_ that opened the gates of purgatory for those leviathan bastards.”

“How can a demon have done that?” Gabriel’s face was warped with confusion, but Crowley just rolled his eyes.

“She’s not a demon, she’s a bloody witch. And a powerful one at that, which is why we needed your help in the first place.” Crowley sat down again and ran a hand through his hair.

“So all we need to do is off your mom and everything goes back to normal?”

“Well, Squirrel, if it was that easy I’d have done it already,” Crowley sighed, “what we need to do is kill the most powerful witch in the world, and _then_ kill the rest of the leviathans so that the man in the sky decides that he’s had enough bloodshed for one millennia.”

Bobby patted him on the shoulder, “I think it’s about time we got going then,” he started clearing plates and piling food into boxes, and when no one other than Crowley moves, he yelled, “everybody get your shit, we’re going to Scotland!”

//

Hours fly by, but by sundown, the gang have packed nearly half the house. The have guns, knives, holy water, food, fuel, clothes, and another small group of demons. The head of which is Meg, who eyes Cas up and down and calls him ‘Clarence’. Dean growls at her and Cas blushes, but all she does is laugh and wink.

They all form a circle, reluctantly holding hands and each carrying bags. Crowley counts to three and Cas, Gabe, Crowley, Meg and the rest of the demons teleport them to Glasgow. The air is fresher there, but it still smells like death, Dean notices upon arrival. It falls to Sam, Dean and Bobby to find cars whilst the rest of them gather strength from what was lost on their trip.

Dean’s the first to return, and he brings an old Volkswagen which looks like someone took a bat to it, but they pile their bags in it all the same. Dean soothes Cas’ forehead on their wait for Sam and Bobby, and it’s not long before colour returns to his cheeks.

Sam turns up in a pick-up, which fits the rest of the troops in the back. Gabriel rides shotgun and they make their way to the safe house. Dean, Cas and Crowley wait for Bobby’s arrival in a tense silence. A car makes its way towards the trio, slowing as it nears. Dean stands up and slings a backpack around his shoulders but realises too late that Bobby’s not the one driving. He’s the one in the back with a bag over his head and rope around his hands.

The blast of a gun rings in his ears, and for the second time in three days, Dean’s consciousness fades out on him. Killing a witch was already proving to be much harder than they’d anticipated.


	10. Chapter 10

Crowley woke. There was a bag around his head, unsurprisingly. He could smell the leviathans in the air, and something more powerful. Something like his mother.

As if sensing his thoughts, the bag is removed from his head, and he sees the face of his wrinkled old bitch of a maternity figure staring down at him.

“Mummy dearest, how wonderful to see you.” With his smile, his eyes flash red and she chuckles.

“Fergus, darling, there’s no need to show off in front of your boyfriend.” Rowena cackles and Crowley turns to see Bobby, bound and beaten, in the corner of the room.

His eyes flash again and he rips the ties from his hands. For a moment, his mother looks shocked, so Crowley moves forward to bring his hand up to her throat.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chides, clicking her fingers and sending him flying across the room, “that’s no way to treat the woman who holds all the cards.”

Crowley coughs in the corner but stands up again, limping towards Rowena with his teeth bared. She laughs, and he snaps the neck of a leviathan to his side. He takes the corpse’s blade before it regains its senses and moves closer to Rowena. She mutters an incantation and Crowley pounces, pressing the blade into her neck as the goons attempt to stop him.

“Don’t move another fucking step or I swear I’ll rip her throat out.” The goons keep approaching and Crowley tightens his grip at his mother’s laugh.

“Oh, Fergus,” he hears behind him, “when will you ever learn?”

Crowley turns back to see the Rowena under his blade disappear, replaced with the cackling witch on the throne to his left. He glances again at Bobby, pleading with his eyes for him to _find a goddamn way out of this._ It’s with those thoughts on his mind that Rowena snaps his fingers, and once again Crowley sees black.

 

//

 

Gabe’s been pacing the room for hours. Meg’s been lazily carving the skin off an apple. Sam’s been checking his watch, the window, the driveway, for any sign of the others.

“Maybe they couldn’t find another car.” Gabe’s voice is unsure; he knows he’s grasping at straws. They would’ve made it to the safehouse by now, even if they’d walked the eleven miles it took to get to their little clearing in the woods.

“Maybe they were eaten by wolves.” Meg pipes up, but her eyebrows are drawn in thought and her foot is tapping against the concrete, impatiently awaiting news.

“Maybe Rowena knew we were on our way.” Sam’s voice ceases Meg’s tapping and Gabe’s pacing, and draws the attention of every other meatsuit in the room. “I think we need to start looking for them.”

“Sam, we can’t go in there blind as bats without Crowley’s intel, we haven’t even got any goddamn clue as to where they’re hiding out!”

Before Sam can put a word in edgeways, Meg gets up from her seat and moves closer to the pair. “I hate to interrupt your lovers’ quarrel, but I, for one, actually _do_ know where Rowena’s hiding out.”

Gabriel scoffs, “Even with that, we’d need to know how to take her down, _and_ we have no actual proof that that’s where they are.”

“You may be an angel of the lord, but I’m a demon of hell. If we summon Crowley and he doesn’t show, we know he’s with his momma ‘cause witches are the only fuckers with enough power to stop a summoning.” Meg makes her way over to the bags lining the entrance of the cabin and pulls out a knife. Tearing a red stripe through her skin, she orders the demons that flank her to draw sigils into the wood at her feet.

Gabriel clears a space and Sam keeps an eye on the window of the cabin. An incantation and ten minutes of waiting later, Gabe’s back to pacing and Meg’s once again tapping her foot against the patches of concrete.

“Fuck.” Sam’s voice yet again draws the attention of the whole room.

“You’re right, we need t—”

“No. No,” Sam pauses, swaying slightly and leaning a hand against the window he’d been staring out of, “we have a bigger problem.” Gabe comes to rest a hand against his shoulder and sit him down on the floor. “The leviathans are coming. Here. Right now.”

The screech of tyres pulling up the street pulls Sam out of his vision, and the rest of them out of the relative safety they’d fooled themselves into believing they had.

 

//

 

The sharp light flooding his cell wakes Dean up from unconsciousness. For a moment he is back in captivity; he’s hungry, weak, broken and sore. He shakes himself out of the reverie and snaps back to reality. He’s in a warehouse, chained to a silver stake. There are guards at every corner. He spots Cas from the corner of his vision and it is all he can do not to pull himself free from his confines and race to the angel’s side.

He reigns in the anger rippling within him and looks covertly from guard to guard. The one with the crooked tie favours his left leg, the one with shades is slow, the one with a cap is distracted by the noise of a generator and no one is paying attention to the way Dean begins loosening the chains from around his wrists.

He uses his claws at first, in an attempt to pick the locks. To no avail, Dean tries twisting the stake with his fingers. His fingertips sizzle and he cries out in pain, pulling the gazes of every guard in the room. One by one they approach him, and Dean wraps the chains around his hands to act as a buffer between the punches he throws and their bodies.

Dean kicks the one with the bad leg and yanks the stake from the ground. He sees Cas attempt to do the same but he’s struggling. Dean whips the chain around his head with a flourish and takes out two guards, slicing them through the neck and giving himself more time to reach Cas.

A guard grabs his ankle and with a jerk, Dean falls, smashing to the rough ground with a thud. He slices and thrashes at their faces and he sees Cas throw something in his direction. Dean catches it and swings with a fury, slicing off heads with the help of an angel blade.

He scrambles to Cas and pulls his chains apart, letting the angel lean against his side when he struggles to catch his footing.

They’re halfway to the exit when they hear the slow clap behind them.

“Well done boys, truly,” A woman asks, redheaded and poised with a hand at her him, “but you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to get past me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is a little short and a little crap but I really want to keep a regular upload schedule and I can't have it both ways. Anyway, I hope you like BAMF!Rowena, but I assure you she's not long for this world. Also I rlly like Meg so I thought I'd give her a little flair in this chapter. Hit that kudos/comment if you liked it, or at least tell me what I can improve. I am forever grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> I have, for once, pre-written a chunk of this story. Therefore I am delighted to announce that there will be a regular (ish) schedule for uploading (every Wednesday and maybe on Fridays if I've written far enough ahead). Anyways, this is an idea I've been mulling over for a while but I hope you like it, please give feedback in the comments - also this is not beta'd so I'd be grateful if you pointed out my mistakes :) thanks for reading, if you particularly enjoyed this first chapter there is a kudos button which I would be very grateful if you utilised.


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